


All The Kings Men

by AtThePleasureOfThePundit, LongestFormCensus



Category: Pod Save America (RPF), Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angst, Campaign Era-Kind Of, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, War, rivalries
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2019-02-22 04:09:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13158981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtThePleasureOfThePundit/pseuds/AtThePleasureOfThePundit, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LongestFormCensus/pseuds/LongestFormCensus
Summary: “I’m knighted for one month, and the king dies without an heir, the Duke I serve declares war, and then I get to spend the next two months exhausted, bruised, and covered in dirt.”__Campaign 2008 era fic, going from the primary to the present, Medieval AU.





	1. The Grand Old Duke

**Author's Note:**

> I have a loose understanding of American politics, and a kink. 
> 
> Merry Christmas!

 

 

 

The war started, as most wars do, with two aides nervously waiting outside a door.

 

Jon Favreau had been a squire in the Duke’s court for over a year now, and this was the first time anything of this importance had been assigned to him. Two missives, both addressed ‘To all citizens under my care’, were clutched in his hands.

 

He glanced at the other aide pacing across the hall. The man was young, just as young as Favreau himself, with hands that looked like they were never free from ink stains. Neither of them spoke. Favreau watched as the aide turned on his heal, and started his walk back down the hall.

 

The urge to press his ear against the door was overwhelming, but he wouldn’t embarrass himself in front of one of the Duchess’s men. He would stand perfectly still and wait patiently, like an aide _should_. Not pacing incessantly and fidgeting like a hen fussing about her roost.

 

The door opened and they both jumped. The other aide scrambled back to his place and bowed low as the Duke and Duchess stepped out into the hall followed by their council. Favreau kept his head down, back bent, resisting the urge to glance at their faces.

 

“Favreau.” Favreau straightened as Duke Obama addressed him. His face was carefully neutral, but Favreau could see the tightness around his eyes.

 

“Yes, Your Grace?” He answered easily, keeping his voice steady. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Duchess whisper to her aide. His face paled as she spoke.

 

“Please inform the court that, as of today, we are at war.”

__

 

“I’m knighted for _one month_ , and the king dies without an heir, the Duke I serve declares war, and then I get to spend the next two months exhausted, bruised, and covered in dirt.”

 

Favreau looked up from his writing to grin at Ser Vietor as he pushed his way into the tent.

 

“Clinton’s men got you tired out?” he said, as Tommy pulled off his armour and threw it in a pile on the ground.

 

“More like the country itself! I’m going to be asleep in the saddle if I have to ride another mile.” Tommy said, stepping over a sleeping aide, and throwing himself down on the pallet he shared with Favreau. The tent was a huge mess of makeshift bunks and sleeping pallets where aides and knights and foot soldiers slept, recovered, and got drunk, not necessarily in that order. It was always too warm, and never quiet, and despite the fact that they moved every week, it was a terrible mess in perpetuity.

 

Favreau loved it.

 

“Oh, shut up,” He said, to the back of Tommy’s head. “Don’t be a baby about it, it’s only war.”

 

War, as it turned out, was a long and terrible slog. Mostly it involved riding for great stretches, making camp, and trying to stir support from the villages and townships in contested land. Favreau had been in the middle of writing out an address for the small hamlet four miles south of their camp, when Tommy had barged in.

 

“Oh, it’s _only_ war,” Tommy rolled over, his boyish face creased in a frown, “It’s only the most important war we’ve ever faced. If we win this, Duke Obama takes his rightful place on the throne. And while we, despite all odds, keep winning our battles,that’s not going to last if our campaign continues to be fucked with at every turn.”

 

Favreau groaned. Tommy wasn’t wrong. Clinton’s spies were nothing if not diligent. They could hardly move, for ambush and rout, and their supply lines had been disabled in three city-states.  On one memorable occasion, half their mounts had been replaced with cattle in the middle of the night. At times it felt as though the Clinton campaign knew where more of their men were than they did themselves

 

“Is that speech giving you a lot of trouble?” Tommy said, pushing himself up onto his elbow, “If you’d like something easier, you could ride out to battle with me in the morning. Facing down twenty of Clinton’s men ought to inspire something.” Favreau flicked a drop of ink onto Tommy’s forehead.

 

“Hey, not all of us are knighted.” He retorted, “Speaking of, though, I’ve got to clean the Duke’s armour before nightfall.” He sprinkled some pounce on the ink and then rolled it up with the rest of his papers. He tucked his writing implements and all the drafts safely in his leather case, and reached for the woven basket that he’d bundled Duke Obama’s armour in.

 

“I’ll be back soon,” He said, hoisting the leather strap over his shoulder, “Try not to miss me too much.”

 

Tommy gave him the finger in response, scrubbing at his forehead, and Favreau laughed as he pushed the tent flap back, stepping into the golden light of the slowly setting sun.

__

 

The river was a short walk from the camp and ran through a small thicket of trees. A few of the knights had tied their horses there to graze. Favreau recognized Ser Vietor’s chestnut mare among them, and patted her neck as he passed. She whickered and then returned to her evening meal.

 

Reaching the bank, Favreau let the basket tumble off his back. A gauntlet fell out of the rim and landed in the mud near his feet. He stooped to pick it up and held it near reverently in his hands. There was a fine layer of dust from the Duke’s horse that coated the metal. Favreau shuddered when he caught sight of blood still clinging to the inside of the joints.

 

The Duke had come back victorious, leading their cavalry and their banner high above him. Favreau had been waiting at the edge of camp, scanning the horizon for any sign of retreat or victory. When he saw Duke Obama riding back to them with his armour gleaming red in the light, he’d thrown caution to the wind and rode out to meet them. He was terrified that the Duke had been injured, but as soon as he was within earshot he could hear the familiar laughter of the man he’d sworn to serve.

 

“Nice of you to greet us, Favreau” The Duke had said, his tone still coloured with amusement.

 

“Apologies, your grace,” Favreau had replied, breathless, “I was concerned- I saw the blood and-”

 

“You’re a loyal squire, Favreau” Duke Obama had said, pulling his horse up so Favreau was riding at his right hand, “I appreciate your concern.”

 

Favreau stepped down the bank and submerged the gauntlet into the river, watching as the blood of the enemy flaked off and disappeared. The coolness of the water calmed him, and grounded him to the present. The Duke was alive, and tomorrow he would ride into battle and stain his armour with the blood of the enemy again. He depended on Favreau to keep his armour in good repair.

 

It was a heavy burden, to maintain the last line of defence for the rightful king of his nation, but Favreau shouldered it gladly. He wouldn’t trust it to anyone else.

 

He had finished washing the gauntlet and was reaching for the basket again, when movement caught his eye. He focused on the underbrush across the river and saw it again, this time with a flash of blue fabric. He held himself perfectly still and watched as Clinton’s scribe stumbled out of the trees, tucking his quill away. He looked just as he did when Favreau faced him outside the war room; short and stocky, hair curling around his ears. Hatred boiled in his stomach at the sight. The scribe froze when he saw Favreau across the river.

 

For a moment they stayed locked in place.

 

 

Then Favreau threw the gauntlet down and surged into the river, fighting the waist deep water to get to the aide. Clinton’s man yelped and took off running into the thicket. Favreau cursed, and pulled himself up the other bank. White hot fury surged through him as he fell into a sprint after the other man.

 

There was no question that Clinton had sent her man here to spy on them, and Favreau wasn’t about to let the bastard escape with the notes he had clutched against his chest. The scribe had gotten a head start, but Favreau was a good deal taller than him, and he had the benefit of righteous fury on his side. It took only a moment to catch sight of the man again, and another for Favreau to throw his whole weight into tackling him to the ground.

 

“Fuck!” The scribe screamed as he went down hard, papers scattering out of his arms, “Get off me, you fucking ass!”

 

“You coward!” Favreau dragged himself up to straddle the other man, slamming a fist into his jaw. The scribe let out an undignified squawk of pain, before actually managing to buck Favreau’s weight to the side and scramble back a few paces.

 

“Get back here you little shit!” Favreau hissed, “You fucking sneak!”

 

He latched onto the man’s ankle and began dragging him back across the dirt.

 

“Get off me! Go back to your delusional leader and keep spreading your ridiculous gospel!” The scribe yelled, landing a well-aimed kick on the side of Favreau’s head.

 

“You fucking-” The pain in Favreau’s cheek was washed away in the wave of fury that seized him, “How _dare_ you, you’re not worth the ground he walks on!”

 

“God, you really are all crazy!” The aide hissed at him.

 

“We have a right to this kingdom and we’re going to fucking take it back!”

 

“A _right?!”_ The aide spluttered, still trying to squirm away, “This land has been in our control, under our rule for years, just because you suddenly think that it's yours doesn't make it true!”

 

“You fucking-” Favreau cursed, as the scribe kicked out again, this time catching his shoulder.

 

“If your so called “Rightful King” actually cared for his people, you think he’d do more than telling them to “hope” for something.” The scribe spat at him and managed to loosen Favreau’s grip, “An actual plan would be helpful. Perhaps you’d like me to draft something for you?”

 

“I’ll have your tongue for that!” Favreau yelled, reaching to take hold of the man’s tunic, but the aide slipped out of his grasp with a surprising burst of speed. Before Favreau could even think about getting up, the aide was on his feet and had kicked the loose sand of the riverbank into his rival’s eyes.  

 

“You’re going to _lose!_ ” Favreau screamed, as his eyes stung. He quickly dragged a sleeve over his face and squinted through the tears to see that the scribe was already running, full tilt, for the edge of the forest. He aimed a rock at the man, but missed by a meter. Clinton’s man didn’t even flinch.

 

“You’ll lose and I’ll have the King himself cut out your tongue!”

__

 

Favreau returned to camp just as the sun met the horizon. The bruise on his cheek had flourished into a dark purple, and his body ached with the fight, but the Duke’s armour was clean of blood. He carried the basket over his shoulders, wincing as it pressed down on where the bastard had kicked him.

 

The coward hadn’t even stayed to finish the fight.

 

“Favreau!”

 

Favreau turned to see the Duke striding towards him. Obama looked thin, without his armour, but his height was imposing as always and his air held the promise of strength. He held himself like he was king already, steady as a rock in a stream, as though this war was passing around him.

 

“Where have you been?” The Duke’s voice was angry, but retained its usual warmth, “I was afraid you’d been lost off the road.” Favreau knew he must look a mess. His cheek still stung, his clothes were dusty from the riverbank, and his knuckles had split open when he punched Clinton’s spy. He opened his mouth to apologize, but lost his voice when Obama placed a hand on his cheek.

 

“What happened?” The Duke asked, his eyes searching Favreau’s face for an answer, “Who did this to you?”

 

"It's nothing, your grace. I encountered one of Clinton’s spies in the woods, and attempted to stop him." Favreau assured him, quietly basking in the affection he was shown, “He got away, but I doubt he retrieved any useful information.”  

 

“It's a horrible reality of the times we live in that my dear aide was called into combat.” Obama said, moving his hand to grasp Favreau’s shoulder, “Thank you for your efforts.” He stepped back, but the heat of his hand lingered on Favreau’s skin. Moments like these, when the Duke showed how deeply he cared for his staff reminded Favreau why he swore to follow this man into war.

 

He felt flushed, like he’d just drunk hot mulled wine, heat seeping out from his core to buzz happily under his skin.

 

“I beg your pardon, You Grace” The Duke turned as a knight approached them, and launched into a flurry of questions about the upcoming battle. Sensing that he should probably get back to work, Favreau hefted the basket onto his shoulder, and set off towards the command tent, bruises forgotten, as his skin prickled with the pleasure of a job well done.

 

__

 

"Wait hold on. You mean to tell me, you got in a fistfight with a Clinton aide and _lost?_ " Tommy burst out laughing as Favreau recounted his altercation in the woods, "God, maybe they should put him on the front lines,they might actually win something, then." Favreau glowered at him. Tommy was sitting in the middle of their tent, resting his back against a bunk. A slowly cooling bowl of stew was balanced on his knees, where Tommy continued to pick at it.

 

Favreau was pacing around the tent, narrowly avoiding people eating and sleeping. His anger had returned full force now that he was thinking less about the honour and glory of protecting the Duke and more about how badly his cheek burned.   

 

“I swear, if I ever see him again I’ll-” Favreau kicked over an empty bucket.

 

“So, what? Did he take you from behind?” Tommy asked, trying to soften some bread in his gravy.

 

“No!” Favreau retorted angrily, “I surprised him! And somehow he _still_ got away!” Tommy scoffed.

 

“What, was he huge? One of her honour guard?”

 

Favreau didn’t answer.

 

“Oh my god, was it that tiny fellow?” Tommy asked gleefully, “That little scribe that follows her around?”

 

Everyone knew Clinton’s scribe. He was always running around her camp, accompanying her to meetings with the Duke. Obnoxiously loud, for someone whose job was allegedly to write.

 

“He was surprisingly scrappy!” Favreau snapped as Tommy dissolved into laughter, “You should be thanking me, Ser Vietor! He was very near to your horse. If I wasn’t there he might have stolen her.”

 

“No, not Lucca!” Tommy was still laughing, but seemed upset at the idea, “Thank god you were there to defend my girl, Ser Favreau! Where would we be without you?” Favreau couldn’t help cracking a smile at that.

 

“Oh, shut up,” Favreau said, settling down on their pallet, “When we win, I’m going to make sure he gets what’s coming to him. I’ll challenge him to a duel, I’ll take his fucking tongue myself if I have to.”

 

“You’re not knighted,” Tommy reminded him, “You’re not titled at all, you legally can’t duel. And neither can he for that matter.”

 

Favreau groaned and lay back.

 

“Guess I’ll have to settle for just watching him march back our camp, bound and broken, when we fucking _win.”_

 

Tommy patted his shoulder. “I’ll make sure you get to see it even if I have to run him down myself.”


	2. He Had 10,000 Men

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey friends i'm back! sorry holidays were busy! once again super big thanks to LongestFormCensus who is the brains behind the enterprise <3

 

 

 

Favreau didn’t even have the luxury of waiting until his bruises had faded before he had to face Clinton’s scribe again. Two weeks after their fight, the Duchess sent a missive requesting to discuss a truce until the spring planting was complete. The Duke agreed to a meeting on neutral ground, and Favreau found himself outside a makeshift command tent, staring Clinton’s aide down.

 

Clinton’s man was sporting battle scars as well. One of his eyes was bruised a sickly blue-green where Favreau remembered punching him. The aide glared at Favreau with an expression sour enough to curdle milk. Apparently he remembered the fight as well as Favreau did.

 

Favreau returned the glare. He heard could hear the Duchess’s voice, cool with respect and dignity, from inside the tent. He clenched his fists, eyes still locked with the scribe. It could be hours or moments before their leaders agreed on their terms and led them back to their camps. That suited Favreau just fine. He was fairly certain there was enough hatred within him that he could stand all night to glare at Clinton’s man and remain warm.

 

The scribe languidly opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue, as if to say ‘look what I still have, Favreau. You haven’t won yet.’

 

Favreau carefully reminded himself that the Duke and half the honour guard were only a few feet away and wouldn’t appreciate a brawl in the middle of their meeting.

 

Half an hour later, the tent flap opened, and both aides bowed low as the Duke and Duchess stepped out. Favreau watched them shake  gloved hands as their guards filed out behind them. Ser Vietor settled himself beside Favreau, stealing a glance over at Clinton’s scribe.

 

“Oh, Lovett,” The Duchess called, turning away from Duke Obama, “I will need you to take something down as we ride back.” She stepped towards her own man, as Obama turned back to his own.

 

“Ride out in ten,” He said, as Clinton’s troop mounted immediately, and began their long trek back to camp, “Favreau, I’d like to go over something with you.”

 

__

 

“Lovett.” Favreau said, with relish, “I _finally_ know his name.”

They were pressed close together near the dying embers of the fire, trying to let the heat soothe their muscles after a long day’s ride.

 

“Good thing too,” Tommy said, tossing a chicken bone into the fire, “I was wondering if you’d run out of unfavourable names for him.”

 

“Oh shut up,” Favreau said, stretching out his legs.

“A two week truce,” Tommy mused, “I’ll have time to return all my letters.”

 

“Ah, missing your dear fiancée?” Favreau elbowed him, grinning “How is your lady coping with you being away for so many months?”   


“Shut _up!”_ Tommy said, blushing, “She’s perfectly busy with her own job.”

 

His intended was, in fact, busy with her own work, but somehow still found time to write him long reams of parchment. It wasn’t enough. Favreau saw that written in every line of Tommy’s face, every day on campaign. The formal proposal, the wedding, was an event that every member of the staff looked forward to, once the war was over. If- _when_ \- they won.

.

Tommy continued, unaware of Favreau’s internal monologue. “ I miss her everyday, don’t doubt that, but this is important. Everything we’re doing is important.”

 

“You’re a lovesick dog, Vietor” Favreau replied, grinning. “She’s always had you wrapped around her finger.”

 

He dramatically flopped onto Tommy’s legs, “Oh, Ser Vietor,” he moaned, high and simpering, “Fetch me some wine, and carry me across the courtyard in your big strong arms!”

 

“Oh would you like some wine, darling?” Tommy countered, “Here you are, dear, anything for you,” and promptly upturned his wineskin on Favreau’s head.

 

Dan and a handful of other aides guffawed as Favreau spluttered and scrambled out of Tommy’s lap.

 

“You _bastard!”_ Favreau hissed tackling Tommy over.

 

There was no venom in it. Tommy laughed, as he tried to get Favreau in a headlock, and Favreau laughed in turn as he tried to knock Tommy over.

 

“Oh Jon,” Tommy said, gaining the upper hand, and pushing Favreau off him, “You really should stick to your ink and quill.”

 

Favreau swore at him, and didn’t mean it it.

 

“Okay, okay! I give!” He laughed, brushing his clothes off, “I take it back. You’re not a lovesick wilting flower. You’re a strong and masculine knight, who has never cried over a letter before.”

 

“Oh please,” Tommy said, tipping what was left in the wineskin into his mouth, “I’ve seen you moved to tears when the Duke gives an address. You cried over a speech _you wrote!”_

 

They really should have spent the night resting, but a temporary truce was something to celebrate and the idea of getting drunk and forgetting they were at war was just too tempting. Favreau grabbed his own wineskin and lifted it to in a toast.

 

“To the rightful King of our nation,” He said, and relished in the cheers that rose from everyone listening, “To his grace, Duke Obama!”

 

__

 

Favreau woke up in their tent, laying on Tommy’s chest. The smell of stale wine soaked the air, and he could hear someone retching on the other side of the canvas wall. His head was pounding and his mouth felt like it was lined with felt. Tommy’s breath smelled awful and Favreau could hear him snoring, but he was warm and didn’t seem to be waking up any time soon.

 

He smiled and squeezed his eyes shut again. He could deal with the rest of this fucking war when his hangover faded.

 

__

  


Tommy’s chest burned with every breath he took. He was so fucking exhausted that he couldn’t lift his sword to save his life, but he urged Lucca faster. They needed to reach their own land before dusk, or they’d have to camp out in the slowly shrinking area of contested land that Duke Obama controlled. They had been riding in a retreat for over an hour now. Their entire cavalry running at a full gallop away from the blood soaked field they lost.

 

It had been a disaster. Clinton’s army had come from the west, not the north like they had predicted. They’d taken the foot soldiers by surprise, and upset their entire formation. By the time the Duke had directed his knights back into position, the battle had already turned from their favour.

 

The order for retreat had been given, and The Duke himself had lead the cavalry to the front lines. They had to hold the charge off to give the soldiers a chance to escape, to sound the alarm back at the camp. The aides would have to pack the essentials and abandon the camp as soon as possible or they’d be overrun by the encroaching forces.

 

Tommy felt thankful knowing that they had gotten a head start, that they had been able to escape a total defeat, but the fear of losing clouded his mind.

 

The city-state had sided with the Duchess.

 

They had given her access to roads, had bolstered her forces, given her supplies. It had been a terribly rude awakening for all of them. Tommy had gotten so used to winning, to having the people at their backs. He’d forgotten that this was a war, and not everyone was going to take their side.

 

Tommy grimaced as they crested a ridge and Lucca sped up, matching the rest of the knights. He’d caught a lance in his side during the battle; nearly been unseated and trampled. It was sheer luck that as many of them made it out as they did.

 

Relief flooded him as the rest of the campaign came into sight. The Duke signalled for them to circle the back of the group. How he still had the energy to hold his sword aloft one handed was a mystery to Tommy. The blade still gleamed red in the afternoon light.

 

Tommy pulled Lucca up to a trot and finally let himself breathe. Around him, the honour guard were dismounting. A man near Tommy nearly fell out of the saddle, blood pouring out of one shoulder.

 

Tommy leapt off his horse and made to help him, but a squire reached the man before he could.

 

“I’ll take care of him, ser!” The squire yelled over the general din of a tired, terrified mass of people, “See to the Duke!”

 

“Thank you,” Tommy said, emphatically. He kept a hand on his reins, leading Lucca behind him, as he searched the confusion of men and horses.

 

The Duke was standing near a makeshift medical station that had hastily been organized, giving orders to Alyssa. As Tommy approached, she scurried away, directing a small handful of aides that had clustered together.

 

“Your Grace, Sir!” Tommy called, his voice sounding reedy and thin. Duke Obama turned and Tommy couldn’t hold back a shuddering gasp.

 

The Duke’s breastplate had been dented,and blood slowly trickled down the gap in the side of his armour. He still stood straight and tall, apparently untroubled by the wound. Tommy felt his knees tremble.

 

They’d lost.

 

They’d lost and the shock of it was still coursing through Tommy’s veins like ice water. Their enemy had taken control of a whole city-state and driven them out to the middle of nowhere. The people they were fighting for chose the other side. Tears pricked behind Tommy’s eyes.

 

“Your orders, sir?” Tommy could feel his voice waver.

 

Duke Obama looked at him with the same warm and stern gaze as he always had.

 

“Gather the honour guard and ensure any repairs to armour and tack are carried out,” The Duke said, his voice carrying easily,

 

“It’s just a scratch, Tommy,” he continued, when he saw Tommy staring at his side, “My armour caught the worst of it.”

 

“Yes, your grace,” Tommy said, swallowing around the lump in his throat. The hot feeling of despair was creeping up on him. _We lost._ He couldn’t stop thinking about it. _We lost and The Duke was hurt because of it._

 

Obama stepped closer to him, and without any hesitation, pulled him into a hug.

“We were never going to win all of them,” Obama said, their breastplates clunking together awkwardly, “But we _are_ going to win.”

 

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Tommy whispered, blinking the tears back. He was reminded very abruptly that The Duke was a father.

 

“Now, Ser Vietor, we have work to do,” Duke Obama said, firm but still comforting, “We have an hour until nightfall and three hours of work. You better get moving.”

 

__

 

Favreau tapped his quill against the parchment. He was supposed to be writing an address for a small gathering of townships deep in the throws of contested land. The speech was supposed to provide the townspeople with hope, and promise security from the King should they win.

 

It was the sort of blood stirring, patriotism inspiring speech that used to come naturally. Today, the words muddled and slowed his brain, refusing to make themselves known on paper.

 

The dainty chill of spring had faded and the heat of early summer clung to the evening air like wet wool. The heat stuck to his neck and back, making Favreau both restless and sluggish.  Despite the fact that he’d moved outside the tent where at least he could feel the night breeze, he still couldn’t focus.   


He reread what he’d managed to write, and scratched out a few words. They were in a county which had henceforth been more favourable to the Duchess. Nothing but his best, but _everyone’s_ best, would sway them. He needed to show exactly why the Duke was better suited, and just as qualified to rule the nation they were fighting for. It was a message he believed in so wholeheartedly he should have been able to fill reams of parchment with glowing praise.

 

Instead he had about three paragraphs of chicken scratches and one half thought about the promise of a steady future. He sighed bounced his leg impatiently. After their one small, disastrous failure, they’d stayed the course, triumphant up and down the contested territory. Once contentious townships and counties had been won over, and were actively contributing to the war effort. They had never been so secure in the knowledge that they were going to win the kingdom. So why, when he had victory so apparent before him, was Favreau thinking about the Duchess’s scribe?

 

It had been months since their fight in the woods, but he’d crossed paths with Lovett nearly constantly. Every meeting, every conference involving both sides of the conflict brought the two of them face to face.

 

Favreau had seen, in the past months, a good sampling of what the man could write. He’d taken great glee in scoffing at what were clearly important lines in the Duchess’s speeches and watching Lovett flush with anger.

 

While they had never directly spoken after they’d traded blows, Favreau found he’d gotten to know the other man. Lovett was ornery, and he was loud. He was never free from ink stains and always seemed to be moving. Even during important addresses the man would shift from one foot to the other, fiddling with the buttons on his sleeves. Tommy, when Favreau mentioned this to him, noted that Favreau was much the same, when the Duke spoke. Favreau did not honour that slander with a response.

 

Worst of all, Lovett was not an idiot. Favreau could hear it in the Duchess’s voice. He could pick out the lines that had been _chosen_ for her to say. They were good words. They were words that made Favreau huff in frustration because he hadn’t written them first. He was, by all appearances, a smart man, and even a good one. And one, who for reasons Favreau could not understand, working for the wrong side. 

 

It settled under Favreau’s skin like a blanket of nettles. The Duke was the only choice, for the nation, for the future. Anyone capable of performing, thinking, on the level Lovett clearly was, should have been smart enough to see that.

 

He was jerked out of his thoughts by a small comotion from the centre of camp. He tossed his writing aside, and scrambled to get up. He would be more use, he assured himself, assisting whatever was happening in camp than picking at the speech. The Duke would understand. He found himself, before long, skirting a crowd of soldiers, armed and shifting restlessly.  

 

In the centre of the crowd five knelt of Clinton’s men, hands up, heads down. The light from a nearby campfire flickered across their faces, illuminating identical fearful expressions.

 

Spotting Tommy on the far side of the circle, Favreau moved to slip in beside him.

 

“What’s happening?” He whispered, noting that Tommy’s hand rested on the hilt of his sword.

 

Everyone seemed uneasy, but especially the figures kneeling in front of them. Favreau could see sweat beading down the nearest’s brow. After a scan of each of their faces, Favreau quickly determined that Lovett wasn’t among the men in the circle. He didn’t know how he felt about that.

 

“These five surrendered themselves,” Tommy answered, “Said they wanted to see the Duke. We’re waiting to see what he’ll do with them.” Favs stiffened. Or, everyone was clearly thinking, these could be spies. Or an assassination plot. It would be a suicide mission, that much was clear. If any one of Clinton’s countrymen made even the slightest move to attack Duke Obama, they would be met with a barrage of swords, and once the knights had moved on, Favreau would beat their dead bodies himself.

 

There was a murmur and the crowd parted as the Duke stepped into the firelight. He wasn’t wearing his armour, but two of his honour guard stood between him and the five figures.

 

“I understand that you have surrendered to our forces,” The Duke spoke clearly, keeping his gaze on Clinton’s men, “Please, state your case.”

 

For a long moment, no one moved. Then the figure closest to the Duke stood and stepped closer to him. The two guards both drew their swords, and the man stopped in his tracks, lifting his hands above his head.

 

“Long live the king!”

 

Favreau felt his heart skip a beat.

 

“Long live the king!” The man said again, his hands shaking, “We- we want to- we want to pledge our allegiance to you, sire!”

 

There was a ripple of movement through the crowd as everyone reacted. Favs saw people press their heads together, whispering about what would be done. The other four figures looked just as wane and fearful as before.

 

“And your allegiance will be valued,” the Duke answered easily. At his words Clinton’s countrymen visibly relaxed, one woman bowing her head, apparently sobbing in relief.

 

“See to it that these people are given a place to stay as well as protection from any harm. There may be people seeking them.” He continued to the two guards, and then turned back to his tent, leaving them all in the glowing firelight.

 

The crowd watched in a tense silence as their new allies were lead away, hands still raised. Favreau felt a thrill of excitement rush through him. 

 

Tommy was silent, with the dignity befitting a knight, but his hand clenched on Favreau’s shoulder, belaying his excitement.

 

They _were_ going to win this.

 

“ Tommy,I’ll see you later,” He said, smacking Tommy’s arm in apparent glee, “I need to go finish a speech.”


	3. And When They're Up They're Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahaha...... school ate me alive... but here's the next chapter! special thanks to buttshapedpillow on tumblr for beta'ing this chapter and as always the best lines in this were probably written by longestformcensus <3

 

 

 

 

Lovett stretched up on his toes, craning his neck as far upwards as he could, before slouching in defeat. No matter how he strained his eyes, he could not see a single sign of the army. He, along with the rest of the Duchess’s aides, was standing on the highest point at the edge of camp, scanning the horizon with baited breath. It had been hours and there was still no word from their forces. 

 

Hunger and worry warred in Lovett’s stomach as he paced the ridge. The last leg of their journey had been rough. Their supporters were dwindling, and the funds they’d depended on had become few and far between. Lovett had tried to bolster their forces whenever possible. He’d been intercepting the enemies supply lines for the last few months. It took a well forged missive here and there, or an ambush of their wagons. Sometimes it was just general thievery. 

 

It was worth it though. They’d had enough rations for at least three full meals a week, and kept what remained of their cavalry in health. It was a terrible way of living, but it was all they had. Lovett cursed under his breath. 

 

They needed a win.

 

For months they’d been haunted by the sight of a soldier riding frantic back into sight of the camp, blowing a horn to sound the retreat. It had been months of frantically packing up the camp, riding desperately for hours, trying to stay out of the grasp of Obama’s armies. Lovett kept waking up in a cold sweat, convinced that they were going to be raided. His mind tortured him nightly about the horrors he’d face if Obama’s men ever stormed their camp. 

 

He wasn’t the only one terrified. People had been running from the camp every night, cowards jumping ship. The woke up to a smaller and smaller army every day. Even the Duchess’s personal aides had been disappearing. Lovett held each of them in the darkest place of his heart. How dare they abandon the woman they swore to serve? 

 

They would win. They  _ had _ to. 

 

And Lovett would go with his love, to his home, and write in his own hand again. He’d be in service to the new Queen of their country, just like he’d dreamed. He was going to write for the sovereign ruler. 

 

They were going to win. 

 

Lovett was roused from his thoughts by the sound of hoofbeats. His eyes snapped back to the horizon to see a man on horseback racing across the field between them. Lovett felt his heart freeze. 

 

The Duke’s banner trailed behind him.

 

The aides around him scrambled back, rushing to the tents, but Lovett couldn’t move. The Duke’s man was followed by two others on horseback. Then a rush of foot soldiers came into sight, their cheer loud enough to carry.

 

They hadn’t just lost the ground or the battle. They’d  _ lost.  _

 

The sound of it shocked him into motion, tripping over himself as he ran back to camp. The sounds of an approaching army echoed in the air like a far off storm, but were nearly drowned out by people shouting panicked orders. Lovett ignored everyone, trying to keep his wits about him and pushed his way through the throngs of people deciding what was too important to leave behind and what must be sacrificed. 

 

Lovett’s heart pounded against his ribs as he tore into the command tent. He stood just for a moment watching his fellow aides throw important missives and documents into the fire so as not to fall into enemy hands. Lovett skirted the edge of all of them and grabbed his bag. The most important things he owned were there, and he couldn’t bear to leave them behind. He slung the leather strap over his shoulders and rushed back out into the open. 

 

The camp was pure chaos. Everyone was running, desperately trying to find a mount, and get out of reach before Obama’s men came into the camp. Lovett took off at a sprint. He prayed that no one had taken his regular mount in the confusion. He’d grown very fond of her and the thought of some Duke’s man taking her as a trophy made his throat close. 

 

Or maybe it was because he was running away from the one thing he had worked at for so long. Maybe it was because it was finally sinking in that they had lost this war, and Obama’s men were coming to either capture or kill them. Maybe it was because the hoofbeats were growing louder and he could hear people screaming behind him and the edge of camp was so very far away still.

 

Out of the corner of his eye he spotted a horse leap over the ruins of a tent and gallop in pursuit of someone. Lovett felt his heart turn to stone. The approaching army had overtaken the camp, and nothing short of a miracle was going to get him out of this. Around him he saw his friends, his colleagues, people he’d crossed the country with run down by the Duke’s Honour Guard. A few of them threw themselves to the knights’ mercy, laying on the ground begging to be spared. 

 

Lovett kept running. He wasn’t making it out of this, but he couldn’t make himself  _ stop.  _ The camp was being raided, they’d lost the war, his Duchess was probably dead, but fear pushed him onwards. If it meant being stabbed in the back like a coward so be it. At least he wouldn’t see it coming. 

 

Hoofbeats sounded behind him again, louder this time, and he chanced a look behind him. One of the Duke’s knights was riding him down with a singular look of contempt and hatred. Lovett screamed and forced himself faster. There was no escape, not from a knight on horseback, but the fear was so potent he couldn’t stop if he wanted to. His lungs burned with effort, fatigue bleeding into his legs. Oh god, he was going to die. 

 

He was going to die without knowing if any of his friends lived, or if the Duchess survived, or if-

 

Two hundred pounds of muscle and armour slammed into Lovett’s back, flattening him into the mud and knocking the wind out of him. His whole body screamed in pain, and his ribs protested being pinned. He tried to kick out, tried to scrabble his way forward but the knight weighed him down. 

 

He thrashed harder and heard the knight grunt in effort. Suddenly, there was a knee pressing painfully into the small of his back, a hand in his hair wrenching his head up, and, most terrifyingly, a dagger leveled under his chin. 

 

“We’ve orders not to kill you,” The knight growled, “But I may still take your tongue so, stay down.” 

Tears bloomed in Lovett’s eyes as the knight shoved him back into the mud and dragged his arms back to bind them. 

 

“Is the Duchess dead?” He gasped out, hating how watery his voice sounded. The knight tugged the bonds tighter in response. 

 

“Please, I-I’ll go quietly,” Lovett begged, tears rolling down his cheeks, streaking through the dirt, “Just tell me if she’s alive!” 

 

“Shut  _ up,”  _ The knight growled, and Lovett could hear the satisfaction in his voice, “I'm gonna be honest, I've been waiting a long time to see you like this. You give me a chance to make life worse for you and I'll take it.” 

 

Lovett couldn’t hold back a sob at that. 

 

After he seemed satisfied with the bonds, the knight dragged Lovett onto his feet. He stood shakily, his knees nearly buckling. The knight gathered the reins of his horse, who seemed to be waiting patiently until her master was finished, and tugged her into step with them. 

 

“Walk.” The knight commanded, shoving Lovett forward. The dagger was pressed right between Lovett’s shoulder blades to keep him moving. Around them, the frantic movement of the camp slowed. Most of the tents had been ruined. Some of them were in flames. Belongings and general fair were strewn on the dirt like the camp had been razed to the ground. 

 

Lovett couldn’t stop crying. He tried desperately to keep quiet, but he couldn’t stop the tears welling up in his eyes and spilling over. This was it. Everything they had worked for, gone in such a sort time. They all worked so  _ hard _ to get here, and in the end it didn’t even matter. 

 

What was going to happen to them? Were they being captured to for ransome? Were they going to use the Duchess’s aides as leverage against her surrender? Was the Duchess even alive? 

 

“Keep moving,” The knight said, shoving Lovett forward when he began to drag his feet. 

 

Eventually they arrived back in front of the command tent. Lovett saw the Duke’s squire standing boldly outside the tent’s entrance, practically glowing with triumph. In front of him, knelt a line of the Duchess’s aides. Most of them were weeping pitifully. It was humiliating and horrible to kneel in front of their enemy’s squire. Lovett hardly had time to notice that the Duchess’s crest and colours had been ripped down from the tarp before he was forced roughly to his knees in line with the rest of them. 

 

“Stay down,” The knight hissed at him. Lovett was too exhausted to struggle but the knight kept his hand firmly on the back of Lovett’s neck. He recognized the squire from their altercation in the forest and from diplomatic envoys during the war. His name was Favreau, and Lovett is sure that if given his way, he’d see Lovett hanged. 

 

The flap of the command tent was pulled back and Lovett found himself staring up at the Duke. His armour was dented, and his blue tabard was stained near black with blood, but he stood proudly, with the sun glowing from behind in. He looked every inch the king he soon would be. 

Lovett’s stomach dropped at the sight of The Duke’s sword hanging at his side, the hilt caked in gore. How many of his countrymen had The Duke cut down? Was The Duchess among them? Was The Duke going to kill them personally? Was that their finally honour? 

 

“These are all we could capture, your grace,” The knight said, keeping a hold on Lovett as he bowed, “A few slipped into the forest, but we gathered most of them.” 

 

The Duke smiled warmly at his man, and Lovett could spit. How dare he look kind when he was about to murder them! One of the other aides began sobbing bitterly, and had to be held up by the knight guarding her. 

 

Lovett had seen The Duke run his countrymen down. He’d seen him ride across a field of death, unflinching. He was known to be an unparalleled warrior in battle. Slaughtering them might be beneath him, but it would not be too uncouth. 

 

“Well done, all of you,” The Duke said, his low voice loud in the stillness, “You have all served me well.” He turned to Favreau, “Do you recognize her scribe? Could you identify him?” 

 

Lovett felt his blood run cold, but he raised his head defiantly.

 

“That one,” Favreau said, cooly. His voice seemed strained from holding back his triumph. Lovett stared him down, as though just keeping himself straight-backed made him in anyway equal to Favreau. 

 

The Duke turned back to Lovett regarding him with a calculating stare. Lovett tried not to tremble under it. 

 

“You’re The Duchess’s scribe, I presume,” The Duke addressed him, “Jonathan Lovett?” 

 

“Yes, Your Grace,” Lovett said, and then yelped as the knight behind him pressed his knee against his back. 

 

“That’s ‘Your Majesty’ to you, curr.” He growled at Lovett, gripping his collar to near choke him. 

 

“Ser Vietor! That’s enough.” The Duke- or rather, The King, as Lovett was going to have to refer to him now, snapped. Ser Vietor shrunk back at the admonishment, holding Lovett’s collar far more gently. 

 

“Apologies,” Lovett wheezed, “I beg your pardon, Your Majesty.” 

 

“We haven’t really had time for a coronation in the past twenty minutes since the war was won,” The King said, smiling slightly, “So, I’m no more a king than you are, Lovett.” 

 

Lovett, in spite of himself, felt his terror loosening in his chest. 

 

“Thank you, My Liege,” He said, quietly. His hands were still shaking, but he was nearly certain The King wasn’t about to kill him. 

 

“Cut his bonds,” The King said, and Lovett felt Ser Vietor snap the rope that bound his hands with the cool touch of a dagger. Lovett fell, sprawling forward into the mud with nothing to hold him up. He caught himself on one hand, but it hardly mattered. He was already covered in dirt from being tackled to the ground. 

 

“Come with me, Lovett,” The King said, and then to Lovett’s astonishment, offered his hand, “The Duchess will need you to draft a surrender.” 

 

Lovett felt hot relief pour down his back and well up in his eyes. His Duchess lived. 

 

“Yes, Your Majesty.” He croaked through his emotion, accepting The King’s hand. King Obama treated the exchange as though it was normal, and he wasn’t the new sovereign touching bare skin to the dirty hand of an enemy’s scribe. Looking over The King’s shoulder, he could see Favreau’s expression had turned stoney. Lovett tried to hide the shaking of his shoulders as The King stepped aside. Bracing himself for whatever he found, Lovett stepped into the command tent, his heart in his throat and his hands clenched in fists. 

 

He took a moment to blink the tears out of his eyes, and adjust to the darkness before facing the room before him. 

 

Lovett felt his heart swell up and choke him all over again. The Duchess sat across from him, still in her battle worn armour, but seemingly unharmed. With a small cry, he rushed forward and knelt at her feet, weeping in relief. 

 

“I’m sorry Your Grace,” Lovett whispered, pressing his brow to the hem of her gown, “We failed you.”

 

For a long moment they stayed silent, mourning their loss. They had come into this war with such hope, and month by month it had been stolen away from them. 

 

“Rise, Lovett,” The Duchess said eventually, “There is much work to be done.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come yell at me on tumblr at handsomeobamaintherain !


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